


Legacies 2.5

by ChronicOlicity



Series: Legacies [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Green Arrow/Batman teamup?, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Married Oliver Queen//Felicity Smoak, Olicity Fluff, Oneshot, Plotty, Romance, Romantic Fluff, arrow season 4, arrow season 4 fic, arrow season 4 speculation, dad!Oliver, mom!Felicity, olicity family fluff, possible pickup into a short story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicOlicity/pseuds/ChronicOlicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In-progress collection of prompts, one-shots, and ficlet ideas from the Legacies series. People are welcome to send them in (my tumblr is Chronicolicity) or drop a comment...somewhere. Needless to say, I'm still figuring this out as I go :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner Never Goes As Planned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little snapshot post-Legacies, in response to a prompt by supersekrit (which I then took artistic liberty with, oops).
> 
> Took everyone's advice and decided to set up the fluff ficlets as part of a separate collection. But unfortunately not individual works because the tagging system is a BITCH. I don't know, I'm so lazy. Maybe I'll change my mind later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy Halloween! Hopefully you're out partying and getting candy - not staying home and writing fanfic like yours truly. A little fluff ficlet from the Legacies verse...not sure whether this counts as a trick or treat, but anyway. You'll be the judge of that.**

“Well _that’s_ not a good sign,” Felicity said to herself, staring at the chocolate handprints smeared across the printed flowers on her cocktail dress.

The perils of having two very young (and very grabby) toddlers running around the house: date night dresses had a tendency to end up resembling prehistoric cave paintings, especially since Felicity’s instinctive reaction to her children running in her direction was to scoop them up in a hug.

Which was _probably_ something she needed to reconsider, given the proportion of non-chocolate-resistant clothes hanging in the bedroom closet.

Raisa exited the bathroom with a damp rag and gestured one-handedly for Felicity to take off the dress. “No need to worry, _lapochka_ , I can fix stain,” she said, reliably unfazed by the variety of food smears that had presented themselves on Felicity’s clothes since she’d had the twins.

“Can you fix Oliver’s frowny face?” Felicity asked jokingly, handing off the dress and hobbling towards the closet in her underwear. “I’m pretty sure the restaurant we’re going to is perpetually booked solid, and I’m _almost_ too afraid to ask how Oliver got a reservation.”

Raisa made a sound that might have been a snort. “Oliver is never early — he will wait for you, or I will remind him he was two hours late to his parent’s wedding anniversary.”

Felicity stuck her head out from behind the closet door, torn between picking a new dress and hearing another embarrassing Ollie-story, of which the teasing options were endless. “Because of a girl or partying too hard?”

“ _Girls_ ,” Raisa answered darkly, wiping the brown stains with quiet efficiency. “Mrs. Queen was not happy for that.”

“I’ll bet.” Felicity ducked back inside the closet and thumbed through her options, shivering in her basque-and-suspenders combo (classic theory-execution disparity right there, unless catalog models were genetically programmed not to feel the cold).

Felicity finally settled on a burgundy lace dress and proceeded to fumble her way into it, wondering if a shrieking, chocolate-handed child (one of two) was the universe’s way of telling her to stick to shades of red.

“How do I look?” she asked, doing a quick spin for Raisa in the doorway.

Raisa gave an approving nod. “Oliver has no chance.”

Felicity laughed and bent to give her a kiss on the cheek. “That’s the idea.”

* * *

 

“ _Da_ ,” Hazel said, holding up her chocolate-covered fingers with an expression of glee. “Da!”

It was a product of both habit and reflexes that Oliver managed to avoid getting chocolate on his gray suit jacket, and distracted his daughter long enough to set her down in a secure highchair at the kitchen island. Even then, Hazel’s short legs kicked resolutely between the gaps, and he fully expected her to start screaming unless food was introduced as a mode of placation.

“I know, Hazel, I know,” Oliver promised, lowering an unresisting Tommy into a matching chair. “Just two seconds, okay?”

“Ya,” Hazel answered, and kicked all the more furiously in her chair, her hands splayed starfish-wide.

“Oh-kay,” Tommy mumbled, and immediately hid his face in his shoulder like he was shy at the sound of his own voice.

Oliver dropped a kiss at the top of Tommy’s head (which made his son giggle, as it always did) and did the same to Hazel, grinning even though she rubbed chocolate down the side of his face, her trademark messy way of expressing affection.

Cleaning the chocolate from his children’s hands was a well-rehearsed struggle, but an unavoidable one because of Raisa’s excellent baking and their shared love for sugary treats. For the sake of variety, Oliver sorted through the cookie jar for two equal-sized oatmeal raisins, which served as distractions while he rubbed the chocolate from their hands with baby wipes.

For a brief period of time, there was nothing but the sound of soft chewing. Oliver should have been anxious about their eight o’clock reservation, but it was hard to be nervous when Tommy and Hazel were sitting in front of him, sixteen months old and only more loved than the day they’d been born.

While his sister communicated in half-words and laughing shrieks, Tommy communicated his concerns with silent nudges and doe-eyed looks.

Oliver bent in response to Tommy’s quiet bump, putting his ear by his son’s mouth. “Yeah, buddy?” he asked.

 _Nudge, nudge_.

Oliver turned his head just in time to intercept a piece of raisin cookie against his lips. There was a distinct increase of crumbs down the front of his shirt and tie, but Oliver chewed and swallowed the bite of cookie, making encouraging 'yummy noises' (Felicity’s words, not his) as he did.

“That’s really good,” he said, and blew a noisy kiss into Tommy’s cheek. “Thanks, buddy.”

The rest of Hazel’s cookie went flying across the floor. “Muh!” she shrieked, and Felicity came stumbling into the kitchen, out of breath and in a new, dark red dress.

“ _Whoa_ ,” she said, narrowly sidestepping the projectile. “Are we starting a food fight, sweetie?”

“They’re just happy to see their mother,” Oliver answered, leaning across their children’s heads to kiss Felicity. “Ready to go?”

“That depends.” Felicity looked down at Hazel and Tommy, as though hastily checking them for signs of chocolate. “Are they —?”

“Cleaned them — you’re fine,” Oliver reassured her, and Felicity immediately pounced on the twins, showering them with unabashedly noisy hugs and kisses.

“ _Hi_ ,” she said, beaming as she kissed their flushed faces. “Have you been nice to daddy?”

“Nuh-uh,” Hazel insisted, which made Felicity laugh.

“That’s about right,” she said, smoothing down the wily blonde tufts sticking up from their daughter’s head. “Did we comb your hair, sweetie? Because I feel like we did.”

“Da go?” Hazel queried, looking from Felicity to Oliver.

“We don’t have to,” Oliver said, reflexively tidying Tommy’s dark curls while he watched them from below, doe-eyed and rapturous, his head moving from side to side like he was following a tennis match.

“But _date night_ ,” Felicity reminded him. “Dinner, dancing — and food, did I mention food?”

Oliver shrugged. “We can do that at home,” he said casually.

“What about the _unspeakable_ things you did to snag us a reservation at _Raffaele_?” Felicity asked.

In actual fact, Oliver had called a few people — including Laurel and the city health inspector — to get them a slot at a reasonable, human hour, but he was nonetheless entertained by Felicity’s more imaginative version of the story.

“Good point,” he said, playing along. “So should we?”

“I think we’ll have to,” Felicity answered, straight-faced. “Do you think Raisa’s going to hand in her notice if we leave her with the trouble twins for the night?”

At that exact moment, Oliver pulled a sticky raisin from the back of Tommy’s head. If they hadn’t known their children so well — with their polar-opposite dispositions — the raisin would have baffled them as a byproduct of messy eating.

Unfortunately, the both of them knew better.

Not one to abstain from taking credit where it was due, Hazel giggled and clapped her hands. “ _My_ ,” she said, and Tommy nosed inquisitively at the raisin.

“Da,” he protested, when Oliver refused to let him eat it. “ _Da_.”

“Hazel Artemis,” Felicity said warningly. “What did I tell you about being nice to your brother?”

Hazel just laughed through her hands. “ _Boo._ ”

* * *

 

“You know, if you _really_ think about it,” Felicity said, rubbing chocolate from Oliver’s face with a handy wet wipe, “Oliver Queen’s bachelor life and post-baby shenanigans aren’t all that different.”

Oliver snorted, his eyes on the road. “Am I supposed to be flattered?” he asked.

Felicity made a face and tucked the used wipe into one of the car’s side pockets. “Depends on how you feel about being covered in chocolate.”

The look Oliver shot her was enough to make Felicity re-cross her legs, not-so-subtly adjusting her position in the front seat while she tried not to think about matters unrelated to the dinner they were about to enjoy.

“You know how I like my dessert,” he said, and it took all of her self-control not to reprogram the car’s GPS for the nearest hotel (or indoor parking lot, she wasn’t picky).

Felicity cleared her throat and smoothed a hand down the skirt of her dress. “I think I _vaguely_ remember,” she agreed, as her palm glided over the unbroken line from hip to thigh, down the wiring in her corset and the nonexistent waistband of the underwear she’d spur-of-the-moment decided to leave at home.

She made a thoughtful noise under her breath. “Can you tell I’m not wearing any underwear?” she asked, and laughed at the choked sound Oliver gave in response.

* * *

“Queen, party of two,” Oliver said, just, _just_ in time for their reservation.

Felicity didn’t think she’d ever stop getting a little thrill every time Oliver said the words, despite the fact that they’d been married for two years and been on countless dates before that.

“ _Oh_ ,” Felicity breathed, when the doors swung open and admitted them into the glittering restaurant.

It was a contrast of wood panels and mirrored walls, chandeliers blazing from high ceilings and crisp white tablecloths all around. Felicity’s heels clacked on the edge of the marble dance floor, the gentle sway of jazz music drifting over from the live band on the stage. It was Sinatra and _Casablanca_ , all rolled into one evening at an Italian restaurant — and Felicity loved it.

“Save me a dance?” Oliver said in her ear, and Felicity brushed her lips across his cheek.

“Always,” she murmured.

“Your table, Mr. and Mrs. Queen,” said the maitre d’, pulling out Felicity’s chair.

“A little quiet tonight,” Oliver remarked, noticing — because it was impossible not to — that they were practically the only ones in the restaurant.

The maitre d’ offered them their menus with a flourish. “We received special instructions from our manager, Mr. Queen,” he said apologetically. “I believe there is a private function tonight.”

“Oh,” Felicity said, raising her eyebrows at Oliver. “Well, good for us — I guess.”

Oliver seemed to agree. “I called ahead about the wine…” he began.

“ _Château Lafite Rothschild, 1982_ ,” the maitre d’ volunteered. “Absolutely, Mr. Queen. I will be back shortly with your choice.”

Felicity eyed her husband over the menu, because the significance of said choice hadn’t escaped her. “You’re pulling out all the stops tonight,” she commented. “First bottle of wine you ever gave me, fancy dinner, fancier dancing…am I missing something? Our anniversary was a month ago. Am I pregnant? Are _you_ pregnant?”

Oliver laughed and reached for her hand across the table, their fingers entwining easily on the tablecloth. “Just…happy to be here. It’s been a while since we got out of the house for dinner, just the two of us.”

“Two surprise babies and a genetic knack for troublemaking can do that to date nights,” Felicity agreed, running her thumb across his wedding ring. “Plus, you know, the lair conveniently located under our house and our second jobs in the _Justice League_ …”

“I wouldn’t change a single thing,” Oliver said, stroking her palm.

Felicity squinted at him. “Not even the name?” she teased. “In hindsight, calling it the Justice League _was_ a little cheesy.”

“Never,” Oliver promised, and Felicity smiled at his answer, leaning forward in her chair to kiss him.

“Someone is _so_ getting l—”

“Your wine, Mr. and Mrs. Queen,” said the maitre d’.

“— _ots_ of wine,” Felicity said, switching mid-sentence to accommodate the arrival of their drinks.

Oliver had a completely unhelpful smile on his face, which Felicity pretended not to notice, flushed red at the undeceived look in his eye. “So much wine,” she coughed. “Wine all the time.”

Oliver winked at her before turning to the maitre d’. “Thank you,” he said, perpetually unfazed at almost being caught in a compromising verbal slip-up.

Felicity was still blushing when they raised their glasses to each other. “What are we toasting?” she asked. “Not to sound smug, but I think we’re all good, as far as wish lists go.”

Oliver thought about it for a moment. “There’s us,” he suggested. “Six years.”

“ _Two_ ,” Felicity corrected, laughing. “Oliver, we’ve been married two years.”

“Not to me,” he said, with no hesitation whatsoever. “The clock started when I walked into your office.”

Oliver had a way of saying things — beautiful things — as if they were the simplest truths in the world, as if they didn’t make Felicity’s knees melt, as if nothing mattered except the fact that she’d heard them.

And there wasn’t a lot Felicity could say to that — not to the memory of their first meeting (which could still make her heart skip a beat), or the tacit admission on Oliver’s part that he was a romantic, at least when it came to her.

So Felicity tapped her glass to Oliver’s, and they smiled at each other, long after the sound of ringing crystal faded, just glad — so glad — to be in the present, sitting across from each other with love in their eyes and the warm promise of everything yet to come.

Oliver reached for her hand and pressed a kiss into her knuckles. “I love you,” he said.

“I lo—” Felicity began, before she caught sight of the approaching maitre d’ over Oliver’s shoulder.

And company. The kind that — at least from her point of view, not even _mentioning_ Oliver’s — would put a decided kibosh on the romance.

“— _frack_ ,” she muttered.

Oliver frowned. “Sorry?”

“Felicity,” said Bruce, stopping by their table. “Oliver. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

* * *

Given Oliver and Felicity’s track record of dates and fancy restaurants (the explosion at the other Italian place stood out as particularly memorable), she really shouldn’t have been surprised that their almost-private dinner at _Raffaele_ came with a pretty big caveat.

Namely a billionaire with more money than he knew what to do with, and an uncanny talent for keeping tabs on everyone — artificially-intelligent computer algorithms notwithstanding.

“Felicity,” Bruce said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “You look lovely.”

It was completely in character with the impeccable manners he’d exhibited since the day they’d met, but Felicity knew him well enough by now to be sure when he was teasing Oliver, and this — clearing a restaurant so he could make a dramatic entrance — definitely fell into that category.

“Bruce,” Felicity answered, silently telegraphing an order to _be nice_ , because she didn’t put it past Oliver to utilize his sharp-edged menu in a highly creative way, if given the opportunity.

“You know the manager,” Oliver guessed, distinctly unimpressed by the conversation between Bruce and the increasingly flustered maitre d’.

In fluent _Italian_ , because why not.

Bruce unbuttoned his suit jacket as he prepared to sit. “Oh, I do. But also —” he raised his hand and signaled for the waiter, “—I own the place.”

Felicity toasted Bruce politely, a gesture only half-heartedly imitated by Oliver. “Should have seen that one coming,” she said. “I’m also guessing that you didn’t clear the restaurant so I could have a quiet dinner with my husband, because we’re such good friends and all.”

“No,” Bruce agreed. “I would have sent flowers.”

“Of course you would,” Oliver said, not quite under his breath.

Felicity snapped her fingers. “You know what, _Bruce_ — would you switch seats with me? I think I went to college with the piano player, and I’d _really_ like to stare at him while I eat my fish. Because…reasons.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows and casually looked over the band, none of whom looked a day under fifty. “You went to college in the seventies?” he asked, but got to his feet anyway.

Oliver shot Felicity a _what are you doing?_ look behind Bruce’s back, which Felicity ignored, not-so-subtly changing seats so that she was firmly between the two men and fully equipped to stab either one in the foot with her stilettos — if the need arose.

If either men were surprised, they were too busy with psychological stare-downs and mental flexing to notice. Bruce pushed Felicity’s chair in for her, resting a hand lightly on her bare shoulder before he seated himself across from Oliver, all with the same nonchalant grace.

“So,” Bruce said, “what looks good?”

* * *

Dinner — against Oliver’s expectations — was going rather well. No one had drawn their weapons — be it flechettes, or the ridiculous bat-shaped things that were always getting sent to Felicity in plastic evidence bags.

In fact, it was turning out to be one of their more successful dinners.

The wait staff cleared their empty plates and Oliver leaned forward to top up Felicity’s wine glass. They were chuckling at the story she’d just told about the house-wide chase that ensued when Hazel tried to escape bath time — even Oliver managed to smile, even though he was programmed to be on his guard where Bruce Wayne was concerned.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Felicity hadn’t let go of his arm since the start of the conversation, stroking his wrist in the same reassuring motions like it was some kind of worry talisman.

Oliver smiled at her. “More wine, Bruce?” he asked casually.

Bruce had a way of looking perpetually amused, and he watched them now with the same smile playing across his features. “Please,” he said.

“Get a room, you two,” Felicity teased, but gave a muffled squeak when Oliver squeezed her thigh underneath the table.

Bruce was well-mannered enough to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “Your sister’s married,” he said, sipping from his glass. “How did the happy couple enjoy Istanbul?”

“You know Roy,” Felicity said, still flushed. “He’s happier pretending not to like things, but I’m pretty sure Thea managed to get a few selfies of him actually smiling — although how much alcohol went into the making of those photos, I do _not_ want to say.”

Oliver coughed pointedly, and Felicity gave his wrist a pat. “And of course you don’t, because she’s your baby sister,” she said hastily.

“Better,” Oliver murmured and turned back to Bruce. “So how are things in Gotham? I heard the Bat’s been working hard.”

Bruce inclined his head. “He’s been doing it long enough.”

“He wouldn’t have to,” Felicity said, employing the same innocent voice she used when she was trying to make a point. “Membership offer still stands, Bruce.”

“I’ll make sure my friend gets the message,” he said graciously. “But you know him — he prefers working alone.”

“ _Right_ ,” Felicity said, with a snap of her fingers. “So all those decryption packets ORACLE gets every now and then…that’s just — what — divine intervention?”

Bruce smiled. “He prefers working with the people he trusts,” he amended. “Oracle…and the Green Arrow.”

Oliver cocked an eyebrow. “Wasn’t aware I was in the circle,” he remarked, his tone cool. “Then again, the Batman always seems to be looking for my wife.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” Bruce said bluntly, raising his glass to Felicity. “He has a preference for powerful women — intelligent, beautiful…”

“Married?” Felicity suggested, her wedding ring flashing when she adjusted a stray curl.

“Exclusively,” Bruce agreed.

Although Oliver was well aware that they were making a joint effort to tease him, it was excruciatingly hard not to think about the highly satisfying maneuvers he could employ — _if_ Bruce were nothing more than a stranger trying to seduce his wife.

As for Felicity, who looked nothing short of alluring in a wine-red dress that hugged her figure…Oliver was reminded of their conversation in the car, involving a distinct lack of clothing over a certain area of her anatomy.

It was a different kind of satisfaction where Felicity was concerned — the kind that made Oliver acutely grateful for the table screening his lap from view.

“Gotham could always use a skill set like yours, Felicity,” Bruce said. “I’d try to entice you away from Palmer Tech, but I sense you’re somewhat…attached.”

Hidden beneath the table, something nudged Oliver’s shoe, making him grip the edge of the table in surprise. It wasn’t until he looked over at Felicity — who was blushing rosily as she laughed with Bruce, resolutely avoiding his eye — did he realize that it was her shoeless foot, rubbing against his leg.

“Really?” Oliver said, keeping his voice steady while Felicity’s foot — ostentatiously bare — slid slowly up the inside of his calf. “I’m sure something could be worked out. F-Felicity?”

Felicity had a terrible poker face, and she was practically grinning at the momentary slip in his words. “ _Attached_ is putting it very lightly, Bruce,” she said, tapping him jokingly on the wrist as if in rebuke. “Palmer Tech’s practically a part of me. Right, Oliver?”

Two looks of feigned innocence turned in his direction.

“Is that right, Oliver?” Bruce asked.

Felicity’s foot was practically in his lap, and Oliver almost didn’t trust himself to speak. “Of…course it is,” he managed. “Palmer Tech…can’t do without — _Felicity!_ ”

“Aw, thanks for the support, babe,” Felicity said, as though unaware that Oliver had practically shouted her name in response to her under-the-table mischief, and that her ankle was currently caught in his grip — staving off any further torment.

“I just…can’t imagine Starling without my wife,” Oliver said, keeping a straight face.

Felicity snorted quietly into her wine. “He’s right — I’m very indispensable,” she said, as though Oliver’s fingers weren’t wrapped tightly around her wriggling foot.

“I’m sure that’s true,” Bruce said, visibly amused by the subtext of the conversation. “As it happens, my friend might need the both of you in Gotham. There’s a case that requires a little extra assistance.”

“Oh,” Felicity slid her foot out of Oliver’s grasp. “For real?”

Bruce smiled, but a shadow flickered across his face, a shift in expression that didn’t escape Oliver. “As much as I enjoy exasperating your husband, I’m afraid matters are rapidly coming to a head.”

He tossed a small card onto the tablecloth, and it slid across the smooth surface, stopping just shy of Felicity’s fingertips. Even though it was clearly an open invitation, both Oliver and Felicity were too experienced with forensic evidence to touch it barehanded.

“It’s clean,” Bruce reassured them. “Scrubbed it for physical evidence — there’s nothing traceable.”

Felicity glanced at Oliver, who leaned forward to inspect the geometric stenciling of what looked like a generic playing card.

Except for the unmistakable spatter of dried blood across the red-and-white backing.

“ _And_ there goes my appetite for dessert.” Felicity wrinkled her nose, evidently recognizing the stains. “Running low on evidence bags, Bruce?”

“Not your average poker card,” Oliver guessed.

“No,” Bruce answered, and reached across to flip it over. “Because it’s a calling card.”

The three of them stared at the single printed character on the creamy white paper, a lone prancing figure with a leering face.

Felicity looked up, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “This wasn’t in the news.”

“The SCPD isn’t the only police department that consults masks when they run into the cruel and unusual,” Bruce said, with a gleam of dark humor.

“Why do you need us?” Oliver asked bluntly. “I’m sure the Batman can track down one homicidal maniac by himself.”

“ _If_ he were just a homicidal maniac,” Bruce said. “But he’s not. Murders, armed robberies, attacks…all with nothing in common except one thing — anarchy. His pattern is the lack of one, and there’s no way his next move can be pinned down using a standard algorithm. Gotham’s already lost a DA and a deputy police commissioner — the Batman can’t risk another murder.”

“I’m guessing you think ORACLE can make a dent in this guy’s plans,” Felicity said.

“The most intelligent computer in the world,” Bruce agreed, “and the woman smart enough to handle it.”

Bruce turned to look Oliver dead in the eye. “If the Green Arrow can hunt down a shadow organization like HIVE,” he said, “one psychopath can’t pose too much of a challenge.”

Oliver and Felicity exchanged wordless looks.

“I know it’s asking a lot,” Bruce said. “You have children, a family…and with your identities out in the open there’s no telling what the repercussions might be — if you choose to get involved.”

“But you trust us,” Felicity said, a truth they already knew.

Bruce nodded. “I trust you,” he repeated. “The both of you, and I hope you’ll make the choice to help.”

There was an air of finality to the statement, as though time had somehow run out. Bruce drained his glass and rose smoothly from his chair. “I think that’s my cue.”

“ _Bruce_ , you don’t have to go —” Felicity began, and trailed off when he kissed the back of her hand.

“I have a flight to catch,” he said politely, leaving the card where it lay. “Dinner’s on me — sorry for interrupting your evening.”

Oliver stood up to see him off. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he inquired. “Teaming up doesn’t seem to be the Batman’s MO.”

Bruce grasped Oliver’s hand briefly, his expression thoughtful. “Call it a test run,” he said, and the same dark smile glinted in his eye. “If everything goes well, maybe this can be the beginning of a partnership.”

Felicity slipped her arm around Oliver’s and rested her chin on his shoulder. “We’ll hold you to that, you know,” she called, because Bruce was already walking away.

“Oh, you have my full support on that one,” he said over his shoulder. “Mrs. Queen, Mr. Queen — enjoy the rest of your night.”

After he’d gone, Felicity exhaled. “Why does he always do that?” she muttered.

* * *

 Suffice it to say that the ride home was subdued, with only the occasional whoosh of a passing car breaking the silence.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” Oliver said, looking over at her in the pale bloom of the headlights.

He was right. Felicity’s lips felt like they had to be unglued when she finally opened her mouth. “Just thinking,” she said nonchalantly.

“Not about the Branzino,” Oliver guessed.

Felicity smiled. “It was good sea bass,” she said, patting her belly. “But I was thinking about Bruce.”

Oliver made a noise that might have been a laugh — or a very quiet curse word, Felicity wasn’t sure. “I’m sure he’ll fly you to Gotham in a heartbeat.”

“ _Oliver_.”

He was silent.

Felicity tipped her head up towards the car roof. “The Green Arrow and the Batman,” she said thoughtfully. “Any comments on that one?”

“I’m still trying to work out how we got from you telling me that you weren’t wearing any underwear in the car — to debating whether or not to spend a few weeks in Gotham, trying to track down a psychopathic maniac on a killing spree.”

“While working with a billionaire-slash-nighttime-vigilante,” Felicity added. “And if it helps — I wasn’t lying about the underwear. I’d prove it — right now — but I’m pretty sure you might crash the car if I go full _Basic Instinct_ on you.”

“Thanks for the restraint,” Oliver said dryly, taking one of the familiar turns towards home.

“So you don’t want to do it,” Felicity said. “It’s okay — we can stay put.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, your frowny face leaves a lot of room for misinterpretation.”

“It’s just…” Oliver sighed. “I’m not sure about Bruce. I know he’ll be a good addition to the League, but —”

“Oliver, he’s a good guy.”

“He flirts with you.”

“Barry and Ray flirted with me, Oliver. It just means they like blonde nerds who wear glasses,” Felicity pointed out. “If we’re being honest — and I think we’re both past that — Bruce kinda reminds me of you. Which is why I think you’re worried about working with him. You think you’ll butt heads because you’re both stubborn as frack and _hardwired_ to go solo — plus there’s the whole theatrical thing, with the Robin Hood, and the _bats_ …”

“ _Felicity._ ”

“The point is, I get it,” she said, laying her hand on his free one. “You’re similar — but it doesn’t mean you won’t make each other stronger. If anything, it’ll cut down on the learning curve stuff since you guys already think alike. And you’ll be doing a lot of good, which I _think_ is semi-sorta one of the reasons why you decided to pick up that bow.”

Oliver glanced at her. “Might be dangerous,” he said.

“Never stopped us before.”

“Gotham’s a different kind of city.”

“Not any meaner than Starling used to be,” Felicity reminded him.

“Hazel and Tommy —”

“— we can protect them,” Felicity said, her tone almost fierce. “We always have, always will.”

Oliver shook his head, and his half-smile already told her what he’d decided. “And to think — this evening started with you telling me that you weren’t wearing anything under that dress.”

Felicity flicked him lightly on the arm. “I’m your partner, wife, and occasional voice of reason — but by all means, focus on my lack of underwear like some sex-starved perv,” she said, feigning offense.

Oliver pulled smoothly into the underground garage, and Felicity blinked at the sudden change in lighting. “Okay,” he said, taking the keys from the ignition.

“Okay?” Felicity repeated, sitting up straight. “Really?”

Oliver nodded. “One condition,” he said, and Felicity leaned across the console to hear what it was, their faces drawing close.

“Tell me.”

“You and me,” Oliver said, with deliberate — _delicious_ — succinctness. “Elevator.”

* * *

One of Felicity’s heels slipped cleanly from her foot, landing on the elevator floor with a thud. The other followed in quick succession when Oliver lifted her legs onto his elbows, half-supporting her weight against the paneled wall.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Felicity said, clutching at his shoulders with one hand and working his tie loose with the other. “Something got you hot and bothered, Mr. Queen?”

Oliver bit her neck in response, making her laugh — a sultry sound from low in her throat — and scratch her nails lightly across his chest in the downward trajectory of unbuttoning his shirt.

The visit from Bruce had left them with some serious considerations, and Oliver knew there was more to discuss between himself and Felicity, but he was allowed to be a little disgruntled at the unsolicited interruption to what should have been a peaceful dinner date with his wife, one of the few since their children had been born.

Oliver was also allowed to make up for it in the best way he knew how — by pushing Felicity up against an elevator wall and doing what he should have done the moment she’d walked downstairs in her red dress.

Their kisses increased steadily in urgency, and each item of clothing hitting the floor seemed to mark a drop in grace — or restraint, which had never been a strong suit for either of them to begin with. Felicity’s hands were gripping the back of his neck, but Oliver’s were sliding beneath her skirt, following the hidden suspenders and up the smoothness of her inner thighs.

They both caught their breaths when his hand reached the moist warmth between her legs. “You’re soaking wet,” Oliver said, almost in surprise — that she could be so ready for him, so quickly.

Felicity was already fumbling with his fly. “You think I don’t know that?” she answered, and they grinned at the same time — a moment of shared humor in the middle of their blazing hurry to get each other’s clothes off.

Oliver’s belt buckle hit the ground with a slap of metal, and Felicity wrapped her legs around his waist, her hand on his hip to ease him in.

Maybe they were too impatient, maybe it was the way Felicity looked — smelled — _tasted_ — but Oliver’s first thrust slammed her back into the wall, hard enough to rattle the four corners of the small metal box they were in.

Instead of crying out, Felicity made a sound of relief and tightened her arms around his neck. “Again,” she said, her teeth nipping at his ear. “ _Harder_.”

Oliver hid a smile in her hair. “As long as it’s you asking…” he said, and she shook in his arms when he did what he was told.

* * *

Felicity massaged lotion into the pink chafing made by Oliver’s beard, a well-practiced routine adopted out of sheer necessity — because without it, she’d have been rubbed raw in all sorts of places she didn’t want to specify.

“I should forget to wear underwear more often,” she said, tilting her neck to get at a spot behind her ear.

“That’s not the only thing you forgot,” Oliver said, from somewhere in their bedroom.

Felicity dispensed more lotion into the palm of her hand and covered the general area above the neckline of her robe. “We took care of that at the ob-gyn, remember? I got an IUD — which _hurt_ , thank you very much — but we’re good to go for three more years.”

“Not talking about your birth control.”

Felicity peeked out of the steamy bathroom. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Oliver was standing in front of the bed, a hand outstretched. “Come here,” he said.

Felicity trusted him without question (despite the weirdness of the request) and padded barefoot across the soft cream rug, so that she could lay her small hands in his broad palms. “Did you hit your head on the elevator wall?” she asked, genuinely concerned that their shenanigans had given her husband a concussion.

Oliver laughed and kissed her softly on the forehead. “No,” he answered, and clicked something on a small remote.

At once, soft piano music began to pour from the speakers by the TV. Oliver laid one of her hands on his shoulder and slipped his fingers through the other, swaying her gently to the rhythm of the song. “We never got to dance at the restaurant,” he explained, in response to her expression of surprise.

“Oh,” Felicity said. “Well, it would have been weird — what with us being the only couple on the dance floor.”

Oliver’s response was to twirl her out across the carpet. “Exactly.”

Felicity spun back into his arms with a laugh, her back to his warm chest. “Oliver — you didn’t have to do this,” she said.

Oliver just smiled. “I wanted to.”

They were both barefoot and in their pajamas, dancing in the middle of their bedroom to a crooning love song, but Felicity wasn’t self-conscious in the slightest, because she couldn’t have imagined a better way to end their evening together.

Except one thing.

Felicity brought Oliver’s hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles, mirroring his gesture from the restaurant, when he’d said the three words that mattered most to them, the ones she’d almost said back before they were interrupted.

But there was all the time in the world now.

“I love you, Oliver,” she whispered.

They were still dancing, moving slowly from side to side. No art, no pretense — except for the fact that they were sheltered and safe in their own little world, oblivious to anything except each other. Oliver gathered Felicity’s face in his hands, and she stood on her toes with her hands resting on his chest, for the softest kiss in answer to a truth the two of them already knew in their heart of hearts.

“I love you, Felicity,” he said back, and they continued their slow dance into the night, secure in the knowledge that they had all the time in the world.

_All the time in the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random:   
>  \- Not sure if this Gotham/Starling thingy/short story is something I’ll pick up at some point (GA, Oracle and the Batman teaming up to catch the Joker? Whoopee :D). Anyway, this started out as a fun prompt from the ever-BrucexFelicity-obsessed supersekrit, so here you go ;)  
> \- BTW, the song that they’re dancing to — completely up to your imagination. Personally, I’m torn between “Nothing Can Change This Love” by Sam Cooke and “All My Life” by Billy Joel (damn you and your answers Guggie *shakes fist*)  
>  Thoughts/rants on 4x04:   
> \- I think it's safe to say that one year on, the very mention of Raylicity can still annoy the _frack_ out of me. Even the theme music. *grrrr*  
>  \- Bravo, Stephen Amell. Truly MVP of every episode. His scene with Lance had me tearing up. Bravo, sir.  
> \- ...oh Sara. You really deserve better than being chained up in a basement. By your own sister. Jeez, for someone who's part of the judicial system and presumably trained with an understanding of human rights (slash basic human conditions for living), Laurel really didn't bother making her sister's confinement even remotely HR-compliant. I'm surprised Quentin didn't get a heart attack from seeing Sara again - jeez, Laurel. At least cat-on-the-roof him, for gosh's sake. (don't mind me, just ranting)


	2. The Three Loves of Felicity Queen's Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy weekend!
> 
> This is completely unrelated to the last chapter, and a prompt response for Pidanka, who asked for this ages ago and was so freaking patient with me while I talked/fanmailed her ear off about unrelated story ideas. (Oops.) Hopefully it’s what you wanted, and as always, artistic license was taken. (Double oops.)  
> MUAH. Love you!!!!

“Felicity,” Oliver said exasperatedly. “Hang up the phone.”

Felicity pretended not to hear, checking the front of her black dress for a nonexistent stain. “Is it weird that I keep expecting to find pureed carrot on this?” she asked.

“Not as weird as calling me from what looks like a bathroom stall in _Table Salt_ ,” Oliver returned, giving her one of his patented sarcastic looks.

“Excuse you,” Felicity said, with extreme dignity. “I’m FaceTiming. Much more sophisticated than calling.”

“Feli—”

“Blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

“I’m not —”

“That’s exactly what someone who’s being held hostage is supposed to say. That’s it — I’m coming home, and I’m bringing the Justice League, and I don’t care how much Roy cusses me out for ruining video game night,” she declared, already scrolling through her contacts for the EMERGENCY list.

“ _Felicity_.”

She plopped back onto the (lowered) toilet seat, holding her phone in front of her face. “What?”

Oliver sighed — possibly in relief that he’d gotten her to sit still — and lowered the laptop onto the ground, so that all Felicity could see was a glimpse of his checked shirt before he disappeared for a few seconds of indiscriminate rustling and shifting.

“If this is some kind of striptease, you’re doing it wrong,” Felicity said. “You need to back up — way, _way_ up if you want to give me a look at the good stuff.”

Oliver’s face came back into frame, this time with an added dose of _really? here?_ for good measure. “ _Anyway_ ,” he said, and sat carefully in front of the laptop to show her what he held in his arms.

Tommy blinked sleepily from the crook of Oliver’s elbow before nuzzling deeper into his warm chest with a muffled _pfft_ , while Hazel grasped tiny handfuls of her father’s flannel shirt in wobbly determination to stand, her clear blue eyes on the glowing laptop screen with the same curiosity she’d shown since the day she’d been born.

“Ah?” she inquired, and Oliver kissed the dark blonde curls sticking up at the back of her head, smiling as he attempted to tidy her genetically untamable hair.

“See? You’re doing okay with daddy, aren’t you, Hazel?” he asked. “Tommy? What about you, buddy?”

Tommy’s only answer was to give a snuffly snore, but Hazel stared while she tugged contemplatively on Oliver’s shirt. Father and daughter looked at each other — remarkably alike in looks and in stubbornness, the two golden loves of her life — until Hazel slowly mirrored his smile. “ _Ya_ ,” she agreed, and Oliver rewarded her with a noisy kiss, this time on the forehead.

“See?” he said, over the sound of their daughter’s giggles. “So enjoy your night off from diapers and feedings. We’re _fine_.”

Felicity’s reflex to baby cuteness (albeit in absentia) was a hand over her mouth to smother the longing _aww_ — which was one step short of racing straight out of _Table Salt_ and hopping in the car for home so she’d be in time for the bedtime stories and cuddling the warm weight of her son and daughter in her arms. No joke, but the smell of toddler was her crack. Or to be more Felicity-accurate, the smell of toddler was just about as euphoric as a brand new ergonomic keyboard and terabyte-processing modem.

The only downside being that Thea Queen would probably, maybe, definitely kill her for skipping out on girls’ night.

Because she deserved to have _fun_ or whatever.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss Tommy, and Hazel.”

“I know,” Oliver said softly, his eyes saying infinitely more than his words ever could. “But you’ll be back in a few hours — and you deserve this.”

Felicity made a face, stroking the screen with her fingertip. “The only way I’m getting through tonight — besides the food and the amazing friends — is imagining the _many_ ways Oliver Queen is gonna welcome me home. Preferably shirtless. With chocolate sauce handy. But you know the drill.”

Oliver looked like he was trying not to laugh. “I do.”

“ _Fantastic_ ,” Felicity said, biting back a grin at the mental image of Oliver and _chocolate_. “I love you.”

Oliver smiled. “I love you too.”

The bathroom door banged open, ushering in the sound of a familiar pair of heels. “If there’s a Mrs. Queen hiding in there,” Thea announced, “hang up the 911 call with my idiot brother and come out with your hands up.”

Felicity unlocked the stall door and squinted up at Oliver’s younger sister. “How’d you know I was in here?” she asked, disregarding the fact that she still had her husband on the line.

“Besides the fact that I once tailed a sketchy double agent across Starling City without him noticing?” Thea answered, utilizing the Queen family sarcasm to great effect. “I know how much you _love_ the lamb burgers at Table Salt, oh — and Ollie texted me to get you out of the bathroom.”

Felicity’s mouth fell open. “ _Traitor_ ,” she breathed. “Using my own children against me.”

Oliver was unaffected by the hyperbole. “Worth it. Because Thea’s not letting you come home until you finish dinner,” he said.

“And a pitcher of _margaritas_ ,” Thea sang, pulling Felicity to her feet.

“Wait — wait —” Felicity said, grabbing onto the doorframe with one hand. “Oliver, how do you know what the ladies’ bathroom in _Table Salt_ looks like? We’ve never had sex in h—”

“ _Guys_ ,” Thea looked like someone had punched her between the eyes. “Little sister, right here.”

“Hm?” Oliver raised his head and stared unconvincingly at something out of frame. “I think Raisa needs my help. Something’s…burning.”

“Probably your pants,” Thea muttered, frog-marching Felicity out of the bathroom. “Still suck with the excuses, brother dearest.”

“Oliver Queen, you are _so_ d—”

“Let’s see if you’re still saying that after a few strawberry margaritas,” Thea said, and hung up for her.

* * *

 

Oliver shut the laptop with a shake of his head, unsure whether he’d momentarily averted a disaster or just delayed detonation for a later date.

During the abrupt segue the conversation had taken, Tommy had managed to scramble up against Oliver’s shoulder, and was watching something behind him. “What’s going on, buddy?” Oliver asked, bouncing his son gently against him. “What’s going on?”

“Ha-zel,” Tommy said softly, pointing.

Hazel was surrounded by a recently-dislodged stack of books, but she held one of them aloft like a prize. “Da?”

“You want your story?” Oliver asked, opening his palm for the dog-eared, much-read bedtime story his children seemed to favor above everything else. “Ready for bed?”

Tommy nodded, and Hazel attempted to make her way back over to them, but ended up distracted by the miniature chaos and lost her balance, landing heavily on her front. Hazel let out a tiny sob.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Oliver said quickly, while Tommy’s lower lip quivered in sympathy for his sister. “I’m coming.”

Hazel had a way of crying like she didn’t want to cry, hastily swallowing her sobs so they ended up sounding like hiccups, and she had luminous tears in her eyes by the time Oliver reached her. “Shh,” he whispered, and carefully picked her up with one arm, checking for bruises. “Just a little fall. But you’re okay, right?”

Hazel nodded tearfully, the book still clutched in her little hands.

Tommy had his arms trustingly around Oliver’s neck, and he wriggled closer to whisper: “ _Wead_ ,” like it was a precious secret.

“Read?” Oliver repeated, and Tommy bobbed his head solemnly.

It had to be a strange sight, Oliver walking out of the nursery with a child in each arm, both hovering on the verge of tears. Normally the bedtime routine was an either/or situation, with Oliver and Felicity taking turns with each of their children. One of them would do bath time, the other would do the stories, but they’d tuck their children in together (a necessary measure, especially if one of them was feeling particularly resistant to sleep).

But when all other methods failed — and this happened a lot more often than he thought possible — they’d bring Hazel and Tommy into their bedroom and tuck them into the big bed, all four of them warm and safe under the covers.

Oliver lowered them one by one onto the soft white duvet, and was in the process of dividing up the pillows (averting a potential tussle) when there was a soft knock on the door, and Raisa entered — wearing slippers and bearing a tray of hot cocoa in her hands.

She had unbelievable hearing for someone her age, especially in a house as large as the Queen mansion, and Oliver had no doubt she’d come running as soon as she heard the first sob.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said gratefully, clearing space on the nightstand for the tray. “How did you know?”

“I used to make hot chocolate when you started crying in your room,” she said, by way of explanation. “I was already finished when I remembered there’s no crying Oliver waiting upstairs.”

“Did I cry?” Oliver said, surprised.

Raisa crinkled her nose kindly as she bent towards a still-hiccuping Hazel with a small mug. “The worst baby,” she whispered. “Always crying about something.”

Oliver found himself smiling. With his mother and father both gone, there weren’t many chances to reminisce over childhood memories with someone who’d actually been there, and Raisa was more than happy to oblige on that front.

Tommy turned bright red in response to a kiss from Raisa. “Just like you,” she declared. “Hot chocolate can fix this.”

Oliver blew gently on Tommy’s cup to cool it. “They,” he said, “miss their mother.”

“They miss you too,” Raisa said seriously. “They love their father very much.”

Oliver shook his head in mock tiredness. “Always trying to see the best in me.”

Raisa’s hand was a little rough, chapped and dry from her work around the house, but it was as warm and comforting as Oliver remembered. “You were always a good boy, Oliver,” she said, and smiled. “I never forgot that — and now you’re a good father.”

Oliver looked down at his children, one on either side of him, warm and sleepy, their eyelashes sweeping their flushed cheeks. “I never thought I’d get here,” he said softly.

“I did,” Raisa said, with total confidence. “And I’m happy that you are.”

Oliver smiled. “Good night, Raisa.”

She pulled the covers up to cover all three of them, and slipped the tray back into her arms. “Good night, Oliver,” she said, and the door swung closed on her quiet smile.

* * *

Absolutely no part of Felicity thought she’d be coming home to a house on fire. She trusted Oliver with the twins, one-hundred-percent (which only seemed fair, since he’d had _something_ to do with their existence).

But she also knew he had a weakness for the puppy-dog eyes and an unfortunate misconception regarding the meaning of _normal_.

So maybe just a baby flame. Lighter-sized.

The deserted nursery did nothing to smother her worries of conflagration, and Felicity hurried towards the master bedroom with an irrational fear that Oliver had decided to go ahead with the toddler archery course after all.

What she found was just as heart-stopping, only in a different way.

Three sleeping faces in a big white bed, mouths obliviously open to quiet, snuffling snores. Felicity carefully perched on the edge of the mattress to remove her heels, watching her children and husband sleep in uninterrupted peace, because she wouldn’t have woken them — not for the world.

Oliver was in the middle of the toddler sandwich, a half-open storybook lying on his chest, like he’d dozed off mid-sentence. Always the more dominant, Hazel had taken up most of the pillows, asleep with her chubby arms thrown up beside her head and a leg across Oliver’s shoulder. Less of an acrobat than his sister, Tommy was on his father’s stomach, his head tucked just beneath Oliver’s chin, a tiny thumb surreptitiously touching his open mouth.

Even after months and months of having her two beautiful children in her life, Felicity could never get tired of watching them sleep. Hazel slept in disarmingly cute poses of pure toddler karate, but Tommy slept like the most soothing sound in the world was a heartbeat under his ear. They were as different as night and day, and Felicity loved them all the more for it — her two babies, now and always.

And Oliver — _her_ Oliver…

Felicity leaned over their two sleeping children to kiss him softly on the lips, and swore she felt them lift — if only just a little — at the corners. Oliver made a sleepy noise of contentment as he stirred, and Felicity watched his eyes flicker open.

There was no ostentatious look of surprise on his face, no dramatic moment of realization — just the quiet, understated warmth of two people happy to see each other.

Which was the best _welcome home_ Oliver could have ever given her.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” she said, because she’d tramped straight through a perfect family moment like a T-Rex on red meat day. “Didn’t mean to wake you — you were just too cute not to kiss.”

Oliver chuckled, and she knew he didn’t mind, not in the slightest. “You’re the only person who ever calls me cute,” he answered. “I like it.”

“Oh good,” Felicity said, cupping his face in her hands and leaning in to press her forehead to his. “I mean, between the archery and the hacking and the league of extraordinary heroes, at least we have _one_ normal thing going for us — me calling you cute.”

They were unabashedly laughing into their kiss. "Hi," Oliver whispered again.

Felicity’s face felt like it was about to pull a muscle from smiling. "Hi," she whispered back.


End file.
